


Wolf in Dork's Clothing

by Nejinee



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Fluff, Idiots in Love, M/M, Scenting, Werewolves, Wolf Pack, not abo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-25
Updated: 2019-02-25
Packaged: 2019-11-05 06:46:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17913818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nejinee/pseuds/Nejinee
Summary: A day in the life of Steve and his wolfpack.





	Wolf in Dork's Clothing

**Author's Note:**

> Just a note, this fic is not A/B/O in any way, sorry. Just classic old werewolves.

“What are you doing?” Sam asked, coming into the kitchen.

“Baking,” Steve murmured. He was bent low over a tray of rounded blobs of dough, carefully pressing what looked to be the bottom of a glass bottle into each blob.

Sam sighed and dropped the crates of groceries on the counter.

He opened up the double-sided fridge and stared into its bleak interior. “You stress bake a lot, Rogers. You coulda just come with me to get the food. Lord knows we need it.”

He started to pull out the old, drying vegetables and miscellaneous Tupperware containers left over from recent meals, and began loading up the shelves with fresh meat and veg.

“I know,” Steve said, still focused on his work. “But it’s better than the alternative.”

Sam paused, considered that, then nodded. “Probably.”

Steve opened up the oven and waved off a blast of heat before leaning down to pull out a fresh rack of snickerdoodles.

“Oh, sweet Mary, yes,” Sam inhaled, his heightened senses appreciating the scents flowing from the oven.

Steve replaced that tray with his latest batch and closed the oven. He flipped the timer and turned.

“I’m so glad we got a housewife,” Sam snickered and Steve elbowed him.

“Did you buy ribs?” he asked instead of poking holes in Sam’s joke. Everyone knew that of all the members of the household, Sam was the mother hen, making sure they ate, getting them up early and outside, the whole thing.

“You bet your buns I did,” Sam said, bending to shove more red peppers into the crisper drawer. “Incidentally, I also bought lil’ white buns.” He showed Steve the package. “You should be familiar with them. Got a couple down the back of your pants, if I’m not mistaken.”

Steve rolled his eyes and helped Sam finish up with the packing, the two of them nudging and elbowing one another like children.

“When they get back, we’ll have a big meal, fatten everyone up,” Steve said once the meat had all been stacked and put away. “Ribs and steak and kebabs. Anything else?”

“Any bags of blood for Romanov?”

Steve made a face and Sam howled with laughter. “You know she wouldn’t appreciate that.”

“Well, I mean, if the lady likes a bloody Mary, then we might as well–”

“Sam, no, gross, stop,” Steve waved his arms around, just the visual of said drink making him gag.

“You know, for a _were_ , you sure are squeamish,” Sam sighed with amusement.

“I don’t like blood,” Steve said. “That’s got nothing to do with being a wolf and you know it. Hate needles too.”

“You’d be a terrible surgeon,” Sam said, closing the fridge, “or dentist.”

“Blagh, stop!” Steve flapped his hands and left the kitchen, intent on getting away from Sam’s words.

Yes, he hated the sight of blood and definitely wouldn’t be caught dead in a dentist’s office, but that was because he’d endured enough of that as a sickly kid. That had zero to do with the fact they were werewolves, though.

Steve wandered through the house, picking up books and blankets and putting them in their appropriate locations.

His pack would be complete by dinnertime, something he’d longed for for weeks now.

With just him, Sam and Bruce rattling around the old brick house, it could get pretty boring.

Bucky, Wanda and Natasha were out on a mission for Stark; Something that required stealth and magic, it seemed. What better team members to recruit than a sniper-trained werewolf, a vampire who could sneak in and out of anything soundlessly and a witch to ward off magic barrier spells and incantations.

It annoyed Steve that Bucky had been the one wolf to go. Tony had insisted, though, citing the trip as an opportunity for him and Bucky to become ’better acquainted’. Translation: Tony wanted to bug Bucky to death about Steve and drop a metric- fuckton of jokes on top of his head, proving how witty and intelligent he was while showing off his tech whizz gadgetry.

Tony may be 0% supernatural—just a small human with a big mouth–but he was 100% annoying.

Tony had met Steve after months of seeking any information related to werewolves.

It was frustrating to wake up one morning and find a young man trying to pick the front door lock while Steve’s pack slept.

Back then, it had just been Steve and Bucky. Not much of a pack. They’d finally moved into the Barnes family home in Upstate New York; Far away from the cities and lights, out in the country where it was safe; Safe for them and safe for the humans.

Bucky’s family home was as secure as it could get without digging a moat and constructing a drawbridge outside. Bucky had been very tempted though. So when this upstart millionaire kid showed up and just grinned at Steve one morning, lockpicks still in hand, it hadn’t been all that amusing.

Tony had been trying to infiltrate an AIM base, but had been repeatedly thwarted by barriers. In retrospect, Steve knew it had been magic barring Tony’s way.

But the human genius hadn’t known that, of course. No, he’d managed to get into the AIM building’s lower levels through the parking garage and even then had been halted by some strange beast guarding the bowels of the building.

Which was how Steve got roped into the mess that was Tony Stark’s life.

Tony had always believed the tales of supernatural beings. Most people just brushed that stuff off as fantasy and old folk tales handed down from one grandmother to the next, nothing to worry about.

Tony was different. Apparently if you crack enough codes and break into enough top-secret labs, you learn a lot more about animal experimentation than you ever had any right to know.

Tony had been certain the beast guarding AIM was supernatural. A large, frothing animal with sharp teeth, black fur and bright green eyes.

A werewolf, as it turned out.

Steve never did get the full background on how Tony found him and Bucky, but bringing this sort of information had been the first step in them becoming colleagues.

That werewolf that they’d eventually freed (along with other poor, hapless creatures) had been Bruce. Bruce was probably upstairs reading in his room, as he liked to do.

Take one look at the man and you’d be forgiven for thinking he could never be one of those raging animals of the night.

But Bruce was a _were_ , and Steve hadn’t heard of any other werewolves in their territory for years. So he’d followed along and found this lone stray who’d been captured and chained to AIM like a filthy guard dog.

That had _incensed_ Bucky.

Bruce was pack now, safe with them in pack territory.

 

Steve walked out to the back patio where the barbecue was set up.

He busied himself with firewood, stacking the old logs in a pile before going in search for more. Chopping wood was therapeutic, it calmed his mood.

Working with wood in general was cathartic. Steve had always been a maker, choosing art over literature and working with his hands over going to college and getting a high-flying city gig.

He trudged into the nearby thicket and found the last tree he’d been chopping down.

His axe still lay there, unbothered by mother nature.

Steve got to work, trying to make the time fly by faster.

 

* * *

 

His ma had taught him the basics of independence, showing him that the only person in the world he could ever trust was himself. His own hands could cook and build and protect him. No one else would. He came into the world alone so he should always assume to be that way.

It had been just the two of them, growing up in Brooklyn all those years ago.

Werewolves lived much longer than humans and Steve was glad his memory held out just as well.

He wondered still to this day if his ma had known.

Had she suspected?

Had she considered that the man she’d had a fleeting relationship with was in fact a supernatural being?

Steve’s ma hadn’t said much about Joe Rogers, saying he’d joined the war effort and hadn’t come home. The gas got him. It could have killed a _were_ , for sure. But did it?

Steve was skeptical, knowing more now than he did then.

Werewolves were a finely structured group of animals, built on instinct, bloodline and self-preservation.

He hadn’t known they existed back then.

Not until he’d met Bucky.

Bucky was different. He was the kid who smiled broadly and wore his confidence like a comfortable coat. Every kid on the block knew Bucky Barnes. He was cool, he was smart and he was tough.

As werewolves go, Bucky was par for the course.

There weren’t that many _weres_ in America, but New York had a fairly concentrated group right in the heart of Brooklyn. The Barnes household was big and loud and raucous, full of laughter and sniping and brawling and mountains of affection.

Steve hadn’t known it then, not when he was tiny, but Bucky was still the luckiest kid on earth to have all these things, all these people looking out for him.

Bucky had hidden his supernatural life from everyone, as most _weres_ do. Unfortunately, it turned out, Steve was a werewolf as well (go figure)!

Puberty had barrelled into an unsuspecting fifteen year-old Steve Rogers like a freight train careening off a cliff. He’d woken one day with an intense fever, and was left home from school by his ma, who insisted he rest. Little did they know that that was just the beginning of the _change._

It was absolute luck that Bucky had been the one to find him, clothes torn and growling in an alley, half transformed, half terrified. He’d climbed out of the apartment window and somehow hadn’t maimed himself on the way down. Werewolf instinct drove them all to find cover, to find a safe place to change. New York City wasn’t ideal in that regard.

Bucky’s family had whisked him away to their Upstate home and told Sarah Rogers they were treating him to a mini vacation, a rest.

Steve came to learn that he was part wolf, destined to transform at least once a month into an animal who needed to run, to breathe, to exist outside of his soft human shell.

It had been traumatizing, realizing he was a monster.

The Barneses balked at that term and sat him down to hear the tales and history of werewolf kind.

Truly, Steve had been blessed.

Not by his affliction, as he called it, but by Bucky, his best friend, his only confidante and eventually, the only person to make his heart beat a little faster.

The only time Steve and Bucky separated, had been during the war.

Steve had gained inches and mass due to his new werewolf body, but the two of them had been placed in different companies, marching to orders from different C.O.s.

When Bucky’s company had been captured, Steve’s werewolf instinct drove him almost to madness, seeking out his mate.

That was how the legend of the Austrian wolf had come into being.

Soldiers spoke of it years later, recalling the appearance of an immense dog-like creature in the night.

It had beset itself upon the Germans, tearing half of them to shreds and causing the rest to flee.

Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes was found in the nearby woods, naked and unconscious, but alive. No trace of the wolf could be found.

Steve had bluffed his way through his sudden appearance in Italy, citing General’s orders and ‘company reshuffling’. That was how Bucky figured out that maybe his fellow soldiers hadn’t seen _him_ transform, but had instead come across the one beast that would never let him die.

 

* * *

 

Sam found him in the woodshed.

“You almost done, huh?” he said, leaning against the doorframe.

Steve glanced up from behind his work goggles and dust mask. He pulled the mask free and smiled. “Just about. Wanna help me stabilize this leg?”

“Sure,” Sam came around the immense slab of wood sitting on Steve’s worktop. He’d been sanding this baby for ages, slowly smoothing out the grain. Sam held the metal leg in place while Steve drilled the screws in. Four to each leg.

“Perfect. Now it just needs a good oiling and we’ll have ourselves a new dinner table.”

Steve shook the leg, glad to see it didn’t wobble.

“Beautiful,” Sam smiled.

He helped Steve heave the huge piece of furniture down onto the concrete floor. It was easy enough to do, their werewolf strength a tad more powerful than the average human’s.

“Oh, I came in here for a reason,” Sam said.

“Oh?” Steve pushed his goggles up onto his forehead.

“They’re back,” Sam grinned devilishly.

“ _What?”_ Steve yelped. “Are you serious? Why didn’t you–”

Sam laughed as Steve hastily yanked at his apron. “They just walked in. Don’t blame me.”

“That fucking–” Steve huffed angrily, throwing his apron aside, along with his mask. He stormed out of the shed and made his way back to the house.

He blew through the living room and whirled around the corner to the foyer, coming to skating halt.

“Oh, hi, Steve,” Wanda smiled, setting her large duffel down on the ground.

Natasha was there too but Steve only had eyes for the man closing the front door.

“Bucky,” Steve breathed and advanced on him.

Bucky looked up, his hair falling in his eyes. “Hey Stevie–oof!” he grunted as 250lbs of blond muscle thumped into him, pushing him against the heavy door.

“Hello to you too,” Natasha said.

“Hmm!” Steve pressed his lips to Bucky’s, elation coursing through him.

“You know it’s different,” Wanda could be heard laughing. “They’re a matched pair after all.”

Natasha probably responded with something sarcastic, but Steve didn’t care. He could smell Bucky, his familiar scent as strong as ever. Steve shoved his nose under Bucky’s ear and inhaled, holding on tight.

“Hey, pal,” Bucky chuckled deeply. “Miss me, huh.”

“No,” Steve grumbled into Bucky’s neck.

Bucky laughed, “Right.”

Steve pulled back, noticing the way Bucky’s nostrils flared. He was sniffing Steve out too, if perhaps a bit more subtly.

Bucky had a better werewolf upbringing after all. Steve was just the stray that found a pack mate.

“You gonna let me enter my own home?” Bucky pressed. He was carrying a bunch of heavy bags on each shoulder.

Steve sighed and pulled back.

“ _Fine_ , you go get washed up. Sam and I will get food going.”

“Goddamn, yes,” Bucky hissed and lowered his bags to the tiled floor. “Fuckin’ starving.” He leaned in to give Steve a nip on the lips. “Missed you too.”

 

* * *

 

Sam helped Steve cook up a storm. Steve’s cookies sat on the counter for anyone interested.

Steve prepped the meat, making sure they’d have enough for everyone, while Sam chopped up vegetables for salsa and salads.

They let the others settle back in while they cooked.

Wanda had her own room, so could unpack and relax however she pleased. Natasha was making use of the guest bedroom, her condo in Manhattan far away. She visited often, but not enough to warrant storing her stuff here.

Wanda came to them the same way Bruce had. Captured as a teenager by AIM, she’d spent years as an imprisoned witch, being forced to expend her magic whenever her captors required it. They’d already killed her brother in a freak accident, so what was stopping them from hurting her?

She’d been frail and weak when Steve found her, locked up in a clear acetate cage barely big enough to hold her. He’d gone into the compound to find a wolf, not a kid. But seeing her curled up there, terrified and alone, he’d done what he always did: he detoured the mission to help someone who needed it.

They’d escaped with Bruce and Wanda, leaving a smoking shell of a building behind.

Having a witch stay with them had been a little awkward at first, not to mention that she was _female_.

Werewolf packs were almost exclusively male, the wolf gene only passing down the patrilineal line. Women were fleeting dalliances that rarely stayed long and certainly never stayed long enough to earn a room.

So Steve and Bucky had awkwardly welcomed two strangers into their home, hoping for the best.

The house was big enough, but old. Wanda had set herself the task of cleaning it out. She used strange magical spells and hoarded funky-smelling herbs in her room. Steve wondered if that helped her come down from her trauma. The busywork seemed to settle her. She would never be 100% okay, but hopefully having a safe place, and the freedom to leave whenever she wanted, would be enough to keep her sane.

Two more tortured souls under their roof caused Bucky’s protective instinct ramp up to maximum capacity.

He never forgot what happened in Italy, the things that rat-like doctor had put him through. Steve never got the details, but Bucky had been changed by it all. It was one of the reasons Steve hated letting Bucky out of his sight. What if someone else, some other crazed fanatic kidnapped Bucky and tortured him? What if he never came back?

They were too co-dependent by far. Sam liked to remind him of that fact often. Natasha chimed in too.

Though she had no room to talk. She was even stranger than the rest of them.

Here was a woman of indiscernible age with no friends, no family and no connections outside of her covert work.

She was a colleague of Tony’s, a strange, quiet mistress of the night.

Steve had gone on a few missions with Natasha before he ever found out who or what she was. Bucky had insisted she smelled weird, but Steve had brushed him off. The woman was barely 120lbs, what danger was she to a werewolf?

Tony had this way of attracting trouble, you see. And Natasha, if nothing else, was trouble.

She’d been targeting Tony on behalf of some shadowy organization. Somehow she was able to sneak into any building, any secure base, any safe without detection. That is, until Stark’s fancy AI called her out just as she was heaving wads of cash into bags inside his secret hydraulic vault.

That was how Tony met the Black Widow. A super-secret agent who must have been played by many people over the decades, judging by the mythos surrounding her moniker.

But Natasha wasn’t human they’d come to realize.

Bucky had been right.

She didn’t smell like humans. She didn’t smell at all.

That was because, well, she was the undead. A vampire. She’d been ‘born’ over a hundred years earlier in a remote village in today’s Kazakhstan. She couldn’t remember being bitten, or going through a change, but then again, she didn’t seem to care. Whatever life she’d lived in the Russian wasteland must not have been worth remembering.

And now she was one of Steve’s closest friends.

She was seated at the dining room table, swirling a glass of pinot grigio in her hand while staring at her cellphone.

“It’s so weird not feeding her,” Sam whispered, opening the oven to check on the ribs and potatoes.

“Tell me about it,” Steve whispered back.

“Sorry what was that?”

They both jumped and looked up to find her leaning against the kitchen counter.

“Jesus fuck on a fuckstick,” Sam gasped.

“Don’t _do that_!” Steve hissed at her. He hated the way she’d move without being seen or heard. The mythical theory that she could transform into a bat made more sense the longer he knew her.

She grinned at them and took a sip of her wine.

Wanda appeared, freshly washed and in her softest clothing. Natasha helped to braid her long auburn hair, winding it around her head.

Bruce finally showed up, blinking at the familiar faces.

“Smelled food, huh, big guy?” Sam laughed.

Bruce flushed. “Yeah. Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Steve said, waving at the cookies. “Have a snack and grab a seat. Food’ll be done in ten minutes or so.”

Wanda helped Sam carry bowls of sides to the dining area.

“I thought you’d have the new table ready for us by now,” Natasha said from her spot at the round table.

Steve made a face and harrumphed.

Sam chuckled, “Don’t mind him. He was interrupted by you guys getting in early. He’s almost done though.”

Steve made a face, twisting his lips. He snagged a cookie and bit into it.

He watched Sam joke and banter with the others, always the sociable one, the chatty one able to put everyone at ease.

 

* * *

 

Steve had met Sam while out running one day. He’d been visiting Tony, working on some undercover op and had needed to burn off the excess energy required to not punch Tony through the wall every time he made a jab at their life choices.

Thing is, werewolves are pack animals. But because so very few of them made it out of WWII and the bloodlines started to thin out, the packs diminished.

Every pack has a territory. As far as Steve knows, there are maybe five werewolf packs in the continental United States. The East Coast pack (his), the West Coast, based in Palo Alto, the Texas pack, the Mid-West and then the PNW pack. All five packs maintained a wide territory, disallowing entry to other werewolves.

It was werewolf nature to be wary, territorial. It was a really tough trait to kick. As far as Steve could tell, it wasn’t possible. As a teenager he’d found it difficult to not protect those he loved, the people in his building, his friends, his family. As a scrawny runt of a kid he got laughed at, but the fire inside him never once ebbed. Made sense now.

So if you were a werewolf and you were not born into one of the five packs, you were considered a stray.

Steve was a stray by origin. The only reason he was pack now, was because he was Bucky’s mate and the Barnes family line made up the majority of the East Coast pack. No one dared to questions Bucky’s choice in partner, lest they want their heads severed from their torsos.

Steve was a lucky one.

Strays rarely made it into their twenties. It was a hard knock life trying to stay alive and move between the defined territories. A wolf could get attacked or even killed if he wandered into unknown places without permission. Steve had borne witness to this law many times and hated it.

But it was for safety reasons, not madness, that they kept their defined regions protected.

The Barnes clan had been pretty much wiped out after the war. The women involved with birthing or taking care of the babies could move on easily, integrating back into human society. The males, the werewolves, struggled with that.

The last of Bucky’s relatives were killed in a territorial dispute in the seventies. The attacking wolves had barely survived themselves, crawling back to whatever hellholes they’d come from.

Bucky was the last of his line now, which was why moving to the country had made sense. They could stay anonymous in the city, but if a wolf strayed too close, they’d know Steve and Bucky were _weres_ and they’d most likely attack.

Only pack wolves lived in New York State, so locating and defeating Steve and/or Bucky in a brawl could lead to a new pack formation.

That would not be allowed, not as long as a Barnes lived.

So upstate they’d gone.

 

Sam was a stray.

Steve had known that immediately upon smelling him. He was unfamiliar and brazen, running right past Steve, through Central Park, unheeding the danger.

Steve had followed the man, realizing that a wolf in _his_ territory could only mean trouble.

Sam had been spooked and turned to find a big blond man with bright blue eyes barreling down on him.

But Sam wasn’t like other wolves.

He was a talker; Chose to use his head and not his instinct to face off against Steve, the much larger wolf.

This was new. A wolf who could keep his cool and talk Steve off a rage ledge? Unheard of. Not even Bucky could do that.

Sam had turned out to be funny and kind and helpful. He wasn’t a danger to anyone and hadn’t really expected to find another wolf in New York, after rumours had suggested the East Coast pack had disintegrated.

Bucky hadn’t liked Sam.

Sam was a stranger. Sam was a stray. Sam wasn’t family.

Steve would point out that neither was Bruce nor Wanda.

Bruce had been more welcoming to Sam. He perhaps had a better understanding of the differences between the haves and the have-nots. Sam would benefit from their protection, and they would gain another body to help them sustain their current lifestyle. Bucky had only ever known the safety of pack life.

Plus, Sam was a former fighter pilot and had experience dealing with difficult, angry soldiers running in and out of therapy. And he was kind to Wanda because Sam had a sister, a mother and multiple cousins of varying genders. He wasn’t like Bucky, who had no idea what it was like to deal with a young female in his midst.

Bruce never once talked about the fact that three out of the four werewolves had found themselves in battle zones, attempting to feed the chaos that ran through their blood.

Sam may be the smart and savvy _were_ , but he was as much an adrenaline junkie as Bucky and Steve.

There would always be certain traits in werewolves that were common among a group.

They were strong, they needed to transform regularly, they were protective and territorial and they didn’t trust others.

On the flip side, Steve still believed in the pack mentality. They needed one another and he could change the rules, letting strays in and not allowing fear to rule their lives.

Bucky had killed before.

Bruce had too.

Sam never mentioned his history much, but Steve would bet he had seen blood as well.

None of them was free of guilt, but all of them deserved a family.

 

* * *

 

“You’re disgusting,” Natasha said, eyeing Bucky over her empty plate.

Bucky looked up from his BBQ ribs and smacked his lips loudly. He had sauce covering his fingers and face.

“You’re just jealous ‘cos you can’t eat this,” he grinned.

She wouldn’t, couldn’t eat their food, but she still stayed for meals.

“You need more potatoes, Buck?” Steve said, pushing the tray closer to his favourite person. Not that Bucky looked any smaller than when he left. In fact, he looked great, all muscle, all heft.

“Thanks, pal,” Bucky scooped out two more roasted potatoes.

They’d cooked up enough food for an army. Most of it was greens and salad goods, but a heavy tray of meats sat front and centre.

Steve looked at Bucky as he scarfed down more beef and chicken, eyes soft with affection.

Sam pointed at Steve with a chicken bone. “You, yeah you, stop with the sex-eyes. We’re eating.”

Steve flushed red and scowled. “I’m not–” he puffed out his chest.

“Ya gross is what you are,” Sam shook his head and went back to eating.

 

* * *

 

Steve was frustrated. Yes, Bucky was back. Yes, he was safe and sound.

But Steve’s blood was thrumming and he couldn’t do anything about it.

There was always this madness in him that wanted to grab for Bucky. He’d always had Bucky close, could feel his warmth, could smell him.

Bucky smelled like home. It didn’t matter where they went, he was good if Bucky’s scent was near.

It soothed him to smell his mate, some weird biological response.

When Steve had realized, all those years ago, that he would die if Bucky left him, he wondered if Bucky could tell.

A wolf’s sense of smell is like no other.

They could smell small details and could track a person for miles if the trail was consistent enough. It made both of them excellent soldiers but proved horrifying when walking through a battlefield.

The wolf enjoyed battle, but the human struggled with it.

Sensing blood was one part horror another part intrigue. Spending so many years inside hospitals had made Steve queasy at the sight and smell of blood.

It was certainly an odd werewolf trait, unheard of, probably, but that was Steve all over.

Grew up not knowing what he was until it knocked him on his ass.

Then he’d fallen in love with his best friend and assumed he’d be kicked to the curb for it.

Then Bucky had started to smell different, had grown into his teenage self.

Bucky was always handsome, had always been striking.

It’s no wonder Steve fell head over heels for him.

Unfortunately, once Steve’s nose kicked it into high gear, it only got worse.

Bucky’s scent, his hair, his skin, all of it, was intoxicating to Steve. It drove him mad some days.

Humans spoke of lust but probably had no idea what it really felt like.

They were nineteen when Steve’s own scent gave him away.

Bucky had smelled _him_ and had gone all red in the face. That was how Steve found out that sexual arousal was its own scent. He hadn’t been prepared.

It probably helped wolves find willing mates, drove them to the women most suited to their tastes. For Steve though, it had just driven both he and Bucky into a wall of frustration. It wasn’t until Bucky realized Steve kept smelling weird around him because of _him_ that it all fell into place.

They could feed off each other’s scent, could drive one another higher with lust and, well, it made the sex pretty fantastic.

Three weeks without Bucky was quite the dry spell for Steve.

Now Bucky was inside the house regaling Sam and the others with their adventure while Steve fretted and paced inside his workshop.

He’d skived off, citing duties oiling the table and such, but really, he wanted to hide his embarrassing smell from the others.

Steve should let Bucky talk to his family without jumping his bones the minute he walked in. Steve could do that.

He leaned against the top of his handmade table and dropped his head.

He breathed slowly.

“Hmm,” came a low rumble from the shed door.

Steve sighed and turned.

Bucky was standing, framed by the door, the dark evening sky behind him. His hands were on his hips, strong legs spread as he surveyed Steve.

He had changed into a simple grey sweater and jeans, his usual boots big and heavy.

“Whatcha got there, champ?” Bucky smiled and sauntered over.

The hanging bulb flickered and Steve swallowed. Bucky would definitely be able to smell the spike in his pheromones.

Bucky walked along the new table, running his fingers across its surface. “Dry already, I see.” He meant the oil, which had sunk in beautifully, giving the wood a gentle sheen. “You did an amazing job, Steve.”

“Thanks,” Steve stood tall and shifted his shoulders, trying to calm himself.

Bucky walked all the way around the table and headed Steve’s way. “This guy gonna fit in the dining room?” He asked.

“Uh,” Steve caught a whiff of Bucky, warm and heady on the breeze. “I built a hinge and brace into the middle. Folds up nicely for doorways.”

Bucky came up to him and leaned one hand against the table, facing Steve. “Clever boy,” he hummed.

His eyes flicked over Steve’s face and Steve was blown away by the scent wafting off him. Bucky was definitely aroused.

“I thought I’d come looking for you,” Bucky said, lifting his free hand to run against Steve’s cheek. “Thought we had a date?”

He was talking about the implied sexual favours they traded after missions. It was an old joke that became an unofficial trend in their operations.

“I’m here now,” Steve murmured, nipping at the finger roving across his lips.

Bucky smiled and leaned in.

He scented Steve, picking up on his desire. It was wonderful, smelling your partner’s lust like that, knowing how much power you had over them.

Steve loved it too.

Bucky was a territorial lover, as most werewolves were. He didn’t like it when other people set their sights on Steve. Once he’d stared down a woman in the grocery store who’d made her intentions clear about Steve. Steve had been oblivious, rounding the condiments aisle only to find Bucky facing off with a middle-aged woman with big red curls who’d been nice enough to show Steve where the mint sauce was kept.

Another time they’d encountered a werewolf in California. Because they’d just been passing through, neither of them thought much of being in West Coast pack territory. That is until they smelled the interest of another werewolf in the airport with them.

Bucky hadn’t liked that, not at all.

He’d almost gone full wolf, growling under his breath and eyeing the young man across the room. Steve could still see the concerned faces of their fellow passengers waiting for the plane.

Thank God they’d been on different flights. Steve wouldn’t have wanted to witness a bloodbath at 20,000 feet in the air.

So Bucky was a bit territorial around Steve. It wasn’t much of an issue, since Steve could very easily fend for himself. Bucky might be the alpha, but Steve was the enforcer, stronger and bigger than most _weres._ In fact, it was the sort of thing that sent shivers down Steve’s spine.

Bucky perceived Steve as _his_. As Bucky was Steve’s.

It was intoxicating.

“This table built strong?” Bucky purred, breath tickling at Steve’s ear. He’d moved in closer, feeling Bucky near him, the heat of him.

“Of course,” Steve huffed out a laugh. He knew better than to build a flimsy table, not with the way Bucky liked to throw him down on any horizontal surface available.

“You wanna break this baby in?” Bucky looked into Steve’s eyes, his intentions lit up like a neon sign.

Steve leaned into press his lips to Bucky’s.

“You bet,” he whispered and tugged hard at Bucky’s belt buckle to reel him in. Bucky rumbled deep in his chest, very happy to be home.

 

* * *

 

The next morning Steve was making breakfast when Sam walked in.

“You know I’m always happy this old house is as soundproof as it is,” Sam said, plopping himself on a bar stool across from Steve who worked at the stove.

“Uh huh,” Steve said, pouring out a fresh pancake. His hair was standing on end and he definitely was not wearing one of his own shirts.

“Yeah,” Sam said. “Means we don’t have to hear you two going at it all night.”

“Sam!” Steve huffed, flushing pink up to his ears.

“I said _all_ night,” Sam held his hands up. “From ten ’til now, all was good.”

Steve pouted and poked at the pancake so he didn’t have to look at his pack brother.

“From nine-thirty to ten though…” Sam raised his brows and puffed out his cheeks. “The whole neighbourhood heard you, what with the shed door being open and all.”

Steve lowered his arm and stared into the middle distance, away from Sam.

“I gotta soundproof the shed now, don’t I?” he murmured.

Sam laughed, “Or, _or,_ hear me out, you could just not do it in–”

“I’ll soundproof it,” Steve nodded matter-of-factly. “Good idea, thanks, Sam.” And he went back to flipping pancakes.

**Author's Note:**

> I know this wasn't much in the end, but it was a joy to write.
> 
> Thank you for reading! :-)


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